something in.’ She paused momentarily. ‘Not that I do that often – tell her, I mean.’
Checking his watch, Stuart asked for the bill and paid with a £50 note from a folded pile of banknotes. ‘Collected my expenses yesterday,’ he explained as he picked up the receipt and stuffed the notes back into his wallet. ‘Let’s have a breather.’
Outside the air-conditioned cocoon of the hotel, the city enveloped them. Sal felt a rush as the alcohol which had lain dormantin her system kicked in, triggered by the heat and the sounds of the city. It was much too early to go home, what with Monday being a day off, so Sunday night, well, that was their Saturday, really. Stuart was OK. And he was obviously enjoying being with her, even if he was old. Too old to want anything more. Anyway, he’d been married for years. She was enjoying the chat, and surely it was a good idea to hang out with one of your bosses?
‘Let’s walk to the Serpentine – the park is still open.’ Sal clung on to Stuart’s arm as they laughingly dodged the lanes of traffic outside the hotel. Horns honked as they ran. Breathless, they entered the park, where the sounds of the traffic soon faded. The lampposts were lit at intervals, picking out the odd passing couple – shadowy, indistinct figures. In front, a small woman in a fur coat, despite the heat, walked slowly, holding on to a chihuahua by its lead. The grass was scorched by the sun and the broad paths were vivid white scars, even in the dimness. Stuart’s jacket was now slung over his shoulder, his arm bumping against hers as they headed towards the still lake. Sal’s trilling laugh punctuated their conversation; her body was next to his, relaxed into familiarity. At a boathouse, they paused.
‘It’s a bit different from the beach in Suffolk, isn’t it?’ Sal said, gabbling. ‘Now, let’s think. What would you be doing now? A nice bit of telly? No, you’d probably be all tucked up in bed.’
Her voice, since she had entered the park, had taken on an increasingly raucous tinge, words slurred over several syllables. She smiled at Stuart, her eyes catlike as he stood in front of her. The path was empty and the only sound the slap of water against the boathouse.
‘Would I now? And what would that be like?’ he questioned, his vowels overlaid with the sickly husk of desire, and turned to her, firmly grasping her bare arms. He pulled her up towards him and bent his face down to hers. As his mouth landed sloppily on her lips, one hand moved behind to grab her bottom, pulling up the thin dress, clamping her to him, his belt buckle cutting into her hips. His tongue slid into her, large and unwelcome. Sal felt a rush ofnausea … the smell of the bourbon, the cocktails, the ghastly proximity of the man. Her unresponsive mouth didn’t seem to deter him. Instead, her lack of movement appeared to encourage him to let go of her arm and move on to her breasts. She pulled away, thinking she might be sick.
‘God. No. I didn’t mean this,’ she muttered, looking down at her feet.
‘Yes, you did, my lovely lass.’ He lunged at her again, his large hand pressing her chin upwards to receive another kiss. She could see the slack skin around his throat, lizard-like. The water splashed against the tethered boats, but there was no other movement. His hand was stroking the inside of her thigh and moving up. In a fury, she freed herself and kicked him, again and again, wildly. His hand lashed out at her face, his ring clipping the ridge of her cheekbone.
‘Salome, huh? What kind of a scalp hunter are you? Cock-teaser more like.’ His voice had changed, the momentum of desire now replaced with that of humiliation. Sal looked briefly at his disappointed face, the slump in his gait, and she ran, too tired, too embarrassed, too confused to try to make things all right. She could hear his shouts, but she didn’t look back or halt, heading for the lights of the bridge over the Serpentine
Checking his watch, Stuart asked for the bill and paid with a £50 note from a folded pile of banknotes. ‘Collected my expenses yesterday,’ he explained as he picked up the receipt and stuffed the notes back into his wallet. ‘Let’s have a breather.’
Outside the air-conditioned cocoon of the hotel, the city enveloped them. Sal felt a rush as the alcohol which had lain dormantin her system kicked in, triggered by the heat and the sounds of the city. It was much too early to go home, what with Monday being a day off, so Sunday night, well, that was their Saturday, really. Stuart was OK. And he was obviously enjoying being with her, even if he was old. Too old to want anything more. Anyway, he’d been married for years. She was enjoying the chat, and surely it was a good idea to hang out with one of your bosses?
‘Let’s walk to the Serpentine – the park is still open.’ Sal clung on to Stuart’s arm as they laughingly dodged the lanes of traffic outside the hotel. Horns honked as they ran. Breathless, they entered the park, where the sounds of the traffic soon faded. The lampposts were lit at intervals, picking out the odd passing couple – shadowy, indistinct figures. In front, a small woman in a fur coat, despite the heat, walked slowly, holding on to a chihuahua by its lead. The grass was scorched by the sun and the broad paths were vivid white scars, even in the dimness. Stuart’s jacket was now slung over his shoulder, his arm bumping against hers as they headed towards the still lake. Sal’s trilling laugh punctuated their conversation; her body was next to his, relaxed into familiarity. At a boathouse, they paused.
‘It’s a bit different from the beach in Suffolk, isn’t it?’ Sal said, gabbling. ‘Now, let’s think. What would you be doing now? A nice bit of telly? No, you’d probably be all tucked up in bed.’
Her voice, since she had entered the park, had taken on an increasingly raucous tinge, words slurred over several syllables. She smiled at Stuart, her eyes catlike as he stood in front of her. The path was empty and the only sound the slap of water against the boathouse.
‘Would I now? And what would that be like?’ he questioned, his vowels overlaid with the sickly husk of desire, and turned to her, firmly grasping her bare arms. He pulled her up towards him and bent his face down to hers. As his mouth landed sloppily on her lips, one hand moved behind to grab her bottom, pulling up the thin dress, clamping her to him, his belt buckle cutting into her hips. His tongue slid into her, large and unwelcome. Sal felt a rush ofnausea … the smell of the bourbon, the cocktails, the ghastly proximity of the man. Her unresponsive mouth didn’t seem to deter him. Instead, her lack of movement appeared to encourage him to let go of her arm and move on to her breasts. She pulled away, thinking she might be sick.
‘God. No. I didn’t mean this,’ she muttered, looking down at her feet.
‘Yes, you did, my lovely lass.’ He lunged at her again, his large hand pressing her chin upwards to receive another kiss. She could see the slack skin around his throat, lizard-like. The water splashed against the tethered boats, but there was no other movement. His hand was stroking the inside of her thigh and moving up. In a fury, she freed herself and kicked him, again and again, wildly. His hand lashed out at her face, his ring clipping the ridge of her cheekbone.
‘Salome, huh? What kind of a scalp hunter are you? Cock-teaser more like.’ His voice had changed, the momentum of desire now replaced with that of humiliation. Sal looked briefly at his disappointed face, the slump in his gait, and she ran, too tired, too embarrassed, too confused to try to make things all right. She could hear his shouts, but she didn’t look back or halt, heading for the lights of the bridge over the Serpentine
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